


Choked Out

by LadyProto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Backstory, Fire, Gen, Pre-Canon, Racing, Sibling Love, Young Character, back story, drag racing, race car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7763866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world's done me no favors, but it's carved out my only talent: I can drive anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choked Out

I'm not a flowery metaphor or some spiritual experience. I'm the dirt, the grit, and fucking raw elements in the deepest reaches of space that can be anyone's undoing. There can't be fire without a spark, but I'm gasoline and this is my fucking match.

I'm the purest I can ever be at this moment. The power and raw speed of 800 horses rumble between my legs, ready to take off, ready to be free and escape the stables and menial work for something fucking real. The cylinders under the hood hum out a erotic sirens song. I'm one with the universe. I'm fucking Dexter Grif. I'm 16 and I'm fucking alive.

I'm behind the wheel of a 3,000 pound death machine with no roll cage and a gutted interior. All the shit slows me down, and my boss cares more about sex and money than some punk kid’s well being. So I take control of my own destiny -- my own life or death -- and for the first time since my life devolved into shambles can I feel power burning in my soul like a hot white star.

There's 200 dollars and another month's rent beyond that checkered flag, and I'm going to rip it from the maw of society because I deserve it. The world's done me no favors, but it's carved out my only talent: I can drive anything. I can whisper sweet nothings into the ears of any machine and I can make it my bitch, from a vintage 2500 Mercedes Benz AMG SL65 to the newest of the new 2550 Pit-Viper.

I'm leading the race again -- no surprise-- and the tires from the cars behind me scream like hounds in the heat of the chase. I stand on the breaks when I approach a turn, and I stay tight on the throttle until the last possible moment. My vision is narrow, my body is pulling against 4G. The others aren't good enough. They've reached their limits laps ago. No one has ever found my limit, not even God himself.

If the other drivers want to be dead broke, that’s fine with me, but I can’t. I'm doing this for my sister. Mr. Preston -- the fucking scum lord -- made a deal with me. I do his dirty work, and me and my sister get a place to live that wasn't entirely full of rats. The argument was simple: No one rents to a 16 year old except crooks and scam artists, and luckily for me, Mr. Preston was both. He runs bets on an illegal drag race, and I use my lack of self-restraint to throw those races. I go faster than anyone, make the others lose their money, and I get a small cut and a roof over my head.

I've got one last turn, and I have got this shit in the bag. I actually pull off the speed a little just to make it seem more believable. The engine drops from a super nova to a shooting star, and I coast along the last leg of track. But some asshole in a green low rider clips me, and the facts file in my brain in halting, flashing compressed nuggets of memories like I'm viewing it all in some form of a slide show.

The car spins, and millisecond later, my collar bone and ribs catch on the strong shoulder belts as inertia pulls me in a direction I don't want to go. The car and I are a vortex of flesh and metal in a self sustaining nightmare as the tires draw continuous circles on the track. I see the gray cement containing wall. I see the crowd coming closer, and I throw up my arms as the car gives another quarter turn. My back hits the seat with the force of the meteor pummeling the raw earth. My nerves scream, my head bounces off the headrest, and everything in the entire universe crumples together into a single burning glare of adrenaline behind my eyes

The car crumbles like an accordion, the back end hitting the wall and compacting everything in the car like a tin can flattened under an 18-wheeler. My knees hit my chest, the pedals are thrust towards my hips, and the entire rear window explodes at the back of my neck. The car had collapsed on itself on a moment of glory like a dying star, and I'm in the epicenter.

All of the colors of the rainbow dance across the back of my eyes. I'm in space. I'm in the future. I am fucking Dexter Grif and everything is around me is dark. I can feel something hot on the back of my head and my eyes cross as I try to focus on the things around me. The crowd is distant. My eyes are blurred. I fight against the alluring velvety arms of unconsciousness and that foreign warmth gnawing at the back of my neck. The finish line lays just to the left of me. I've won. I can still take care of my sister.

The heat at my neck is growing. I shake the confusion out of my head until I'm able to reach for the door handle. It's jammed shut of course. There are no reinforcements in this thing -- more weight means more drag, and we need every ounce of speed we can get. There's no window punch either. I'm going to be stuck in this hot car until Mr. Preston gets his boys to remove the door. Guess I'll be home late tonight, and for a moment I think of my sister alone in the apartment again, eating Oreos and doodling in a dollar-store notebook to pass the time.

My hips are wedged between the steering wheel at the seat but I manage to see a flicker of orange light behind me. I stretch and strain with all my might to twist my spine in order to see behind me. I come face to face with my future, and it's the fire and brimstone of gallons of gasoline spilling from an illegal race car. Cold panic sets in me even thought I should feel like I'm burning in hell. The car is on fire. I am trapped in a burning car.

I snap into position in my seat and try to door again. Still stuck. I'm not a small kid, and I push all my weight into the handle. Nothing. I desperately search through he window panes, looking for someone to recognize what is happening. I see the faces of a hundred white tourists roaring with fearful delight. Nothing about this was legal anyways, none of them are obligated to see this as anything more than a live snuff viewing. They're staring down at me, all chanting the same words and I can't filter out the meaning through the roaring behind my eardrums. They aren't looking at me, they're looking at something beyond me, and I'm just the kindling to fuel some twisted desire.They're getting their money's worth tonight.

I don't want to die. Despite everything I say and do, I don't want to die. I didn't ask for this. I was doing bad things for good reason. And I hallucinate the shady grove where Judas went to die as the thick, dark arms of smoke wrap around my neck. I'm choked out. Flames dance. Metal blackens. Technicolor galaxies swirl in my eyelids. I want to go home. I want to be with my sister.

_Sis._

"Fuck." I kick and claw and scratch and bite against the choke hold of unconsciousness and fear. There's no window punch. The car’s inside has been gutted and mine will be ash if I don't do something soon. I twist as much as my metal prison will let me and slam my fist against the driver's side window. The glass is cheap, and it shudders against my knuckles but doesn't break. The heat exponentially builds behind my head. It's now or never, and I send my fist against the window again. My skin of my knuckles blister from the hot glass but the window cracks this time. Another punch, and shards of glass fly. Fresh air feeds the fire and I tumble out head first like a baby being born. I swim towards the outside world and I hit the pavement in a tangled mess of limbs and smoke before landing on my ass ten feet away from the car.

They say when you’ve come close to dying, you see your life flash before you, but I see nothing but the hell I’ve helped create. The crowd surrounds me from all angles, staring down at me with twisted delight. Behind me, the fire roars skyward, blistering the the yellow paint and distorting the metal hull with the extreme heat. I’m down on my knees surrendering to the universe. I’m nothing to these people, and I’ve never been anything but the punk kid, their entertainment, their chance at the seeing a snuff scene presented live in red and black. I’m the main course, and the grill’s been lit.

I struggle to stand. No one asks if I’m okay. No one has offered to help me. No one ever offers to help me unless I can give them something in return. I shake my head like a dog, and the glass sheds from my curls before hitting the asphalt with dozens of tiny pings. I dig my boots through the gray packed earth and dying grass to find Mr. Preston. I’m getting my money and going home to my sister.

I finally steady my feet just in time to see pieces of notebook paper get passed around until it reaches the base of the creaky old leader board. It’s one of the old sports scoreboards that has to be changed by hand, so a young kid climbs the criss-crossed metal beams like monkey bars in the playground and places a pre-made sign at the top. It’s my name, backlit with the orange light of a dying sun. First Place: Dexter Grif. Wads of unmarked fifties get tossed aside like garbage as rich tourists pay the price for betting against me. They can all go to their fancy shoreline hotels and conveniently ignore to the fact that I nearly got burned alive for a chance to prevent my sister and I from being shipped to separate foster homes. I hope the words burn into their skull as they drink their vintage wines. First Place: Dexter Grif.

That’s me. I’m fucking Dexter Grif. I am 16 and I am fucking alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I added religious metaphors because how season 1 Grif says that he stays awake at night wondering if there is a god. Originally planned to write a second part about Grif actually collecting the money, but unless I get requests, this is going to remain a one-shot. 
> 
> Based Loosely on the song Choked Out by the mountain goats.
> 
> I have other Grif and Sister centric stories on my profile! Thanks for reading!


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